Glen Campbell — Folk Singer

As I walk these narrow streets where a million passin' feet have gone before me With my guitar in my hand suddenly I realize nobody knows me Well yesterday the multitudes screamed and cried my name out for a song Now the streets are empty and the crowds they've all go one home With the rain on my face there's no place where I belong And my whole life consists of a story, a poem and a song Now the truths I've tried to tell you are as distant as the moon Born a hundred years too late two hundred years too soon I'm a child of the sage lost in the pages of a book But when I'm dust and clay will other people stop and take a look? And will they marvel at the miracles and perform and to the heights I aspire? Or will they take the pages of the book to light of fire? With the rain on my face there's no place where I belong